Invasion Read Online Free

wealth.
    Re-entering the kitchen I head straight to the fridge, blowing a kiss of thanks to the ugly Fate sisters when I extract a beer. A lady who stocks beer is either my soulmate, or she’s hunting for a mate. The lady likes to be prepared, I respect that. Cracking it open and guzzling it down in one, I help myself to another, then check cupboards until I find the pantry.
    Opening the freezer I discover frozen dinners. Tons of the things. So, Lady Luck doesn’t like to cook. That, or she’s practicing to be Martha Stewart and catering all meals in advance.
    I don’t care what it is, I grab the one on the top, slam the chest freezer shut, and head back to the microwave. I put it on defrost for eight minutes, taking a leisurely meander through to the lounge while I wait.
    With the lamps on, I survey the deep chairs, thick pile carpet, pre-stacked fireplace, sound system, CDs and DVDs, crammed bookshelf, and the mind boggling widescreen TV. This woman has spent so much money in here that I can taste the tears of the starving kids in a third world country.
    Adrenaline spikes again when I spy the photo. Advancing, I reach for it, lifting the heavy bronze frame, staring at the woman. Who the fuck is the dude? Dead? A brother? Who?!
    Why do I care?
    I don’t.
    But I do.
    Do she and I know each other? Was this address in my default setting? My autopilot destination? Muscle memory – instinct? An ex? A sister? Who the fuck are you and why do I give two shits?
    Staying here does no harm to anyone, not with no one here.
    What do I care?
    Fuck, there’s a sentience lurking deep inside, one who knows right from wrong. And in this photo is the wrong. It bleeds spiritual angst into the onlooker.
    Not many women can wear short hair like that, but this babe wears it well. She’s a pixie, all angles and curves, cuter than puppy snuggles, and … fragile … broken?
    Photos never lie. This woman is smiling, but it’s because she’s a carrot, pretendin g‘ we’re happy’. Rancid and still. Behind that smile is a shattered soul, one left in fetid swill for too long, fed septic smiles and contaminated coitus. She is held static in the formaldehyde of oppression.
    Her eyes are deader than Odin. The dude is smiling, but his arm around her is too tight, the tension in his grasp so severe his fingertips are white, forcing her skin to depress, locking her in his grip.
    Dude likes bruises. We have something in common …
    He craves control, needs it, suppressing and diminishing so his altar becomes his pedestal. The precious has perished.
    They’re a couple who love to hate each other, or he loves to beat on her, or fuck her in the nought without lube – something. My reaction is irrational. I wanna punch him, break the glass and tear him out of the frame.
    Fuck this.
    Turning away I sprint through her massive foyer and up the staircase, back into the bedroom. This time I’m thorough, looking for evidence.
    Who’s the man? He’s aggressive, that much is patently clear. If I’m going to get him walking through the front door I’d better be prepared to use lethal force.
    Sitting at her dressing table, distracted when I sniff each perfume bottle, imagining them on her pale skin, behind her short hair where the soft curl covers the back of her ear, I am hit with a wave of melancholy. Women are an ingredient no man can diet over. They’re better than carbs for a man’s appetite.
    Blood surges with an ache long ignored. My dick strains in my trousers, but I dismiss it when my need to uncover more of the pixie pretty’s story consumes me.
    Yanking open drawers I find what I’m looking for. He’s been erased with thick black lines of permanent marker in this photo, his face a scrawl of ink. So they split up. That, or this is her witchcraft drawer. He’s not full of pins, so I take it the lady isn’t deep into psychic acupuncture, spiritual torture with poppets and mojo bags.
    Rummaging through the postcards, old birthday cards,